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My Caesar and my Empire have I served,
A diplomatic functionary, true
To distant duties, and never unnerved
By greedy Greek or perfidious Jew

Outside the arca archa have I thought,
Festooned my desk and office with awards;
My Caesar’s honour only have I sought
While sparing for myself but few rewards

I built with focused care my resume’
And filed each memorandum, note, and scrip;
I justly ruled (no matter what they say),
And seldom sent men to the cross or whip

But, oh! That thing about an open vault –
I never got it.  And why was that my fault?
“…and thence to a thing that peers in at bedroom and bathroom windows, and thence to a toad, and finally a snake – such is the progress of Satan.”

- C.S. Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost

When your last psychographic micro-target
Has through our digital operations
Been processed by multiple data teams
As enhanced predictability models

Standard data analytics suggest
That scraping data from your thoughts, your words
The way you touch the screen may sting a little
But we know what is best for you hashtag

Cross-referenced, analyzed, and synthesized
And vacuum-sealed into a Golden Age
As the winds grow stronger and the snow falls heavy,
as the oceans rise and pour over the levee,
as the sweltering heat makes us sleep in the day
and work in the night, I’ll take your hand and say:
Dance with me in the darkness, until the futile dawn;
sing while I play guitar, we don’t have long.
Read your poems to me while we have a little time;
we have no future, but we still have rhyme.
Let’s drink a toast, or two, to what might have been,
and what once was, before our time turned grim
Let’s plunder the pharmacy, or eat the magic mushroom;
don’t go into the night easy, but don’t rage at the moon.
Let’s savor all the moments, as our destiny arrives.
Let’s not waste another minute of our precious time alive.
Mudslides in California, another snowstorm in New York.
Bird beneath the midnight sky
As on my lonely couch I lie,
I hear thee singing in the dark,
Why sing not I?

No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye;
No fond mate answers to thy cry;
No other voice, through all the dark,
Makes sweet reply.

Yet never sky-lark soaring high
Where sun-lit clouds rejoicing lie,
Sang as thou singest in the dark,
Not mute as I!

O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why
So far thy ringing love-notes fly,
While other birds, hushed by the dark,
Are mute as I?

No prophecy of morn is nigh;
Yet as the somber hours glide by,
Bravely thou singest in the dark
Why sing not I?





በምሽት



እንዳንድ ወፍ እንዳለች ታች ከለሊቱ ሰማይ፣

ጋደም እንዳለኩ ለብቻዬ አልጋ ዬ ላይ

ጥኡመ ዜማ ስታወርጂ አሰማልሁ

‹‹ እኔስ ለምን አልዘምርም ?” እላለሁ፡፡



የትኛውም ኮከብ በነፀብራቁ ቢልቅ፣

ያንቸን ንቁ ዓይን አያስንቅ!

ግና ለጥሪሽ ምነው ቅርብ ጓደኛ

ምላሸ አይሰጥሽ ?

ሌላም ድምፅ፣ በዚ የለሊቱ ግርማ፣

የሚጥም ምላሻዊ ዜማ አያሰማ!



ድርጭት እንኳ እስከላይ በእጅጉ መጥቃ

ተጋድምው፣ ፀሐይ በፍንደቃ የሚሞቁ ደመናዎች

እስተሚስተዋሉብት ድረስ ዘልቃ፣ ስታበቃ፣

እንደዚያ እስከላይ ሄዳ፣

እንደኔ ሳትሆን ለመዝሙር ዲዳ፣

አንቺ በድቅድቅ እንደምታወርጂው ዜማ

ከቶ አታሰማ!



ብቸኛዋ ነፍስ ንገሪኝ

ያንቺ ፍቅር የተጫነበት ዜማ፣

እስከአሁን በመቀጠል የሚሰማ!

ደሞም ምነው ሌሌች ወፎች

በጨለማው ዝማም ተሸብበው

የሆኑት ዲዳ፣ በመደዳ!



የማለዳ ብስራተ በሌለበት

ሠአቱ ለመሄድ ዳተኛ በሆነበት

ትዘምሪያለሸ በድፍረት!



በሞትኩት፣ ለምንድነው

እኔ እንዳንቺ ያልሆነኩት? //

(ጁሊያ ካሎሪን)
Never say die
For both the Jews require signs, and the Greeks seek after wisdom#

-Douay-Rheims

Having barely graduated from school
Being fitted with wisdom just won’t happen
But a sign would be nice, a miracle
Just a small one, to make sense of all this

I wouldn’t know a Q source from shoe polish
But don’t patronize me with bumper stickers,
Reimagine Truth as paradigm shifts,
Or shout out with a Sola Scriptura

I am already my own stumbling block
And my own foolishness (complete with notes)
(What Would Woody Guthrie Say?)

My stuff is my stuff, your stuff is my stuff
From your post-hole diggers to that nice pry bar
From your leaf blower to your garden rake
Your stuff – it now belongs to me

While I was climbing
Your backyard fence
I saw your bolt-cutters
Don’t take offense

But you are rich
(You’ve got a job)
I’m sharing your wealth
(I don’t really rob)

My stuff is my stuff, your stuff is my stuff
From the real long power cord to that full tool box
From your brand new shovel to your socket set
Your stuff – it now belongs to me
It seems my little curb side tree
is acting like a tease these days,
Like the famed Gypsy Rose Lee,
She is disrobing by degrees.
A gust of wind, some red leaf falls
like feathers from a boa ripped.
Nearly naked head to breast
but fully dressed about both hips.
She seems quite loathe to lose it all
even in these waning days of fall.
Yet as the stripper ends her tease-
bare magnificence applauded,
My little tree will shed her leaves
to be raked,bagged and discarded
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